Shabana Is Late for School

Published: September 29, 2002

(Page 9 of 9)

Gulshireen, far more outgoing and curious than any of her daughters, suddenly turns to me and asks if I am married. When I tell her I'm engaged, she smiles, but I can tell from the way she raises her eyebrows that she's also a little surprised, maybe even disappointed. ''If I could travel across the world and write,'' she tells me, ''I would never get married.''

Just before I leave, I ask Khuttera about a poster I noticed on the wall, which shows a pretty street, a row of homes with window boxes of red flowers and a snow-capped mountain in the background. ''Where is that?'' I ask Khuttera, pointing at the poster. ''Dubai,'' she answers. They've all spent a lot of time staring at that poster, she says, ''imagining how much better life must be there.'' I peer at the small English writing on the poster, and without thinking I say, ''It's Switzerland.'' It seemed like something that Khuttera, aching for knowledge, might want to know. But from her face it's clear she wishes I hadn't told her. It doesn't seem like she has just gained Switzerland; she looks instead like she has just lost Dubai, another familiar fantasy now foreign to her.

At the close of the semester in late July, a cluster of 14-year-old girls lingers near the entrance of the lovely Tajwar Sultana school, weeping in each others' arms, wiping their eyes with their clean white scarves. I thought maybe the pressure of final exams had proven too stressful or that a few girls just learned that they'd failed. One of them regained her composure enough to explain their distress: They were crying because they were starting vacation. Ten days away from school, stuck at home, would feel terrible, she explained. It would feel like it did under the Taliban. And worst of all, in 10 days, anything could happen. The government could collapse, rockets could again rain down, everyone could be forced to flee the city.

As her classes across town at Deh Dana Naswan started to wind down, Shabana gave little thought to the upcoming vacation, focusing instead on the series of informal quizzes her teacher was administering to monitor students' progress. During one of them, Shabana managed to get a writing assignment correct when sitting next to her neighbor, but when her teacher called her to the board and asked her to write the sentence she faltered, confirming her teacher's suspicions that she'd cheated. Shabana was scolded in front of her classmates and even her mother. She stayed dry-eyed for most of the day, but when she got home, she practically threw herself onto the cushions in the living room, sobbing as her brother tried to assure her she'd get better in time.

A few days later, sitting in the yard outside her home, Shabana had recovered from her embarrassment. It's O.K., she told me; she had never wanted to be first in her class. She liked the idea of the long, thin switch that top students, known as captains, use to get their fellow classmates in line, but the privilege came with too much pressure. Then again, she didn't want to be worst in the class, either. She wanted to be somewhere in the middle. What was the sentence she'd cheated on, anyway? I asked her. ''The school is a place where we learn,'' she said sadly. I couldn't help it: I had to laugh. At first Shabana looked confused, but then her face brightened. She got it. And then she started to laugh, too.

Photos: Shabana Nabizada at school in Kabul. Teaching girls became legal 10 months ago.; Shabana, sans burka, returns from the ice-cream parlor where she hangs out with other girls.; Shabana at school. In Kabul, nearly half the girls are enrolled, but in the south, just 10 percent are. (Lynsey Addario/Corbis Saba, for The New York Times)